Chapter One: The Pines Remember Her Name
The pines knew her before she was born.
They whispered it in the hush between winds, in the hush between prayers. Bonibell. A name like a bell rung only once, long ago, and still echoing through the moss and mist.
She walked barefoot that morning, as she always did when the ache in her chest grew too loud. The village was still asleep, its chimneys unlit, its windows shuttered against the cold. But the forest never closed its eyes. It watched her with quiet patience, letting her pass beneath its branches like a secret.
Bonibell carried a basket of dried lavender and a single candle stub. Not for trade. For the lake. For the silence. For the ache.
She didn't know why she felt drawn today—why the path curved differently, why the birds didn't sing. Only that something was waiting. Not danger. Not quite. But something old. Something that remembered her.
The trees grew taller as she walked, their trunks like cathedral pillars, their leaves whispering in a language she almost understood. She paused by the lake, where the water was still and silver, like a mirror that had forgotten how to reflect. She knelt, placed the lavender on the surface, and whispered a name she hadn't spoken in years.
Then the mist thickened.
It came not from the lake, but from the forest itself—curling around her ankles, rising like breath from the earth. The birds fell silent. Even the wind held its breath.
And then she saw it.
A palace, half-swallowed by ivy and sorrow. Its windows were blind. Its doors, open.
She should have turned back.
But the cold was gentle, and the silence was kind.
Bonibell stepped inside.
The air was colder than she expected—not cruel, but ancient. Dust floated like memory. The walls were carved with roses and stars, faded by time. A broken chandelier hung above her, its crystals catching the last light of dusk.
She wandered through the halls, her footsteps soft as prayer. No one called out. No one chased her. But she felt watched—not by eyes, but by longing. As if the palace itself remembered love.
In the great hall, she found a hearth. Cold, but clean. Someone had swept it recently. Someone still lived here.
She curled beside it, wrapping her shawl tighter. Her candle flickered once, then died. She didn't cry. She didn't pray. She simply closed her eyes and let the silence hold her.
And somewhere above her, in the shadows of the highest tower, he stirred.
The vampire who had not dreamed in centuries.